


So what?

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, First Kiss, Fluff, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Teenlock, Violet and Siger, sherlock/john, very little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: Sherlock spun around, imprisoning John in his arms, and bent down to kiss him once, chaste, gentle, a promise of things to come. ‘You’ll never have to miss me again, John.’John looked up, and Sherlock’s brain froze. ‘I couldn’t contact you. I was too- embarrassed.’Sherlock shrugged, because that couldn’t matter less to him now, not with John so close and so available and so brilliant, his and only his, right in front of him. ‘So what? I have you now.’





	So what?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Johnlock.

If Sherlock believed in one thing, it was that the smallest things can change your life forever.

This belief had been affirmed for him countless times. When he was three, his father (William Holmes, Snr) went to the supermarket to buy milk: he was killed by an eighteen-wheeler on the way back. When he was five, his mother (Violet Holmes) went out for dinner with her friend Jane: she met a man named Siger at the restaurant, and four years later they were married. When he was six, his brother wrote a lengthy letter to the Prime Minister about the poor diplomatic decisions that were being carried out by the government: the next day, a black car arrived at the door, and Sherrinford was gone forever. When he was eleven, he started secondary school, and he met a boy called John Watson.

There were other moments, of course, but until the summer after his fifteenth birthday, these were the most significant, the most important, the most life changing.  

And then they were forgotten, because of a kiss.

Sherlock was told that he was moving to Italy a mere three weeks before their plane was scheduled to take off, because ‘if we had told you before, dear, you’d have kicked off’. They were moving because of Siger’s job, and they were going to be gone for just less than two years, but just the thought of going made Sherlock’s heart freeze.

‘But my _life_ is here,’ he had said, blinking back tears. ‘My school. My connections. My- my friends.’ For the first time in his life, Sherlock was truly happy, and now they were _tearing_ him away from everything. ‘Mummy, I’m doing _so well._ ’

‘We know, love, but you’ve got to come.’ She genuinely looked guilty. ‘I’m not leaving you here alone, Sherlock, and you’ll enjoy Italy. I promise! Siger’s already looked at schools, Myc’s found you a contact in the police, and you’ll make other friends. I’m sure.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘So what? I don’t _want_ a new school, I don’t _want_ a new contact, I don’t _want_ new friends.’ He paused, brain racing furiously. ‘Let me stay with Mycroft.’

Mycroft who was sitting in the corner, looked at his mother. ‘He could-‘

‘Mycroft. You’re abroad constantly, you work ridiculous hours and you’re twenty-two years old. There is no _way_ you could control your brother and work.’

Mycroft pursed his lips and crossed his arms. ‘Right.’ He looked apologetically at his brother, who pouted and flopped back in his chair. ‘I’m not going.’

‘You’re going,’ Violet said. It wasn’t a command, more of a statement, but the tears welling in Sherlock’s eyes finally leaked over and he jumped up. ‘I _hate_ you,’ he screamed, and then he ran up to his bedroom, threw himself on his bed, and cried.

Sherlock Holmes had not had an easy life. His father had died, his oldest brother had disappeared, and he was much too clever. He saw everything, he heard everything, he felt everything, and it _hurt._ He’d been bullied in primary school, he’d developed depression in his earlier years at secondary school, he’d almost killed himself four times before he turned fourteen, but he’d brought himself back from the edge and now he was actually _happy._ He was enjoying all of his six A levels (he was working two years above his age), he was enjoying helping the police and his private clients in the village, and he was enjoying his _friends._ Mike was fun, Molly was useful, Mary was interesting and John- well. John was just _amazing_.

Sherlock rolled over and threw his left arm over his face. He would convince them he had to stay. They wouldn’t make him go. They _couldn’t_. They would see reason. Of course they would.

As he soon found out, they wouldn’t see reason and they could make him go.

He did everything he could think of. He begged, he cried, he went on a hunger strike. He ran away (briefly), he pleaded with Mycroft, he even called social services. When none of those worked, he tried to be good: to show them that he could take care of himself. He _almost_ had them convinced, but then he accidentally set fire to the kitchen trying to cook fish fingers and that was that. He was going.

Because he’d been so busy trying to remain in England, he hadn’t actually told anyone that he was going away. This meant that, on the last day before he went away, he had to call/text anyone that might miss him and explain he was leaving for a year.

He texted Mike, Mary and Molly the same thing:

**Going away. Gone about two years. In Italy. Text me if needed. See you when I return – SH**

He called Lestrade, the young sergeant in the police who acted as his contact, and sulkily told him not to get another consultant before hanging up. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

He also called Mrs Hudson, who had been his nanny for most of his life. He had asked if he could stay with her, but she was currently in the North nursing her frail sister, and likely wouldn’t be back until after Sherlock which was incredibly inconvenient, but unavoidable.

And then he called John. Sitting at his desk, foot tapping anxiously against the floor, phone ringing in his ear, he felt almost sick. He loved John, he was his best friend, and he didn’t know how he would be able to live without him for that long. They’d been inseparable for four years, and the thought of not seeing John for a month, let alone a year, made him feel shaky-

_You’ve reached John. I’m not near my phone, or I’m ignoring you. If it’s the former, I’ll call back as soon as I can. If it’s the latter, piss off._

‘Ahem.’ Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘John. It’s me. Except you already knew that. Because you have my phone number. Shit. Um. I’m moving. Away. To Italy, actually, I’m not sure which part, I’ve been ignoring my parents. But I’m going tomorrow. Sorry for not telling you sooner, I’ve been trying to persuade them to let me stay. But. Yeah. I’ll be back the September after next-‘ he winced, that was almost two years away, ‘Sorry again. Email me, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘John. I’ll- um. I’ll miss you. Bye.’

He closed his eyes, and hung up.

He didn’t hear back from John. He checked his phone throughout the night, as he sat up in bed, mind racing. He checked his phone in the taxi in the morning, his life packed into the suitcase sitting next to him. He checked his phone as they checked in their bags at the airport, and then he put it away, resigned. It was too late.

Siger led the way to security, his hand placed firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder. Siger had been his champion over the past few weeks, desperately trying to make Sherlock happy, but it was hard to explain to Siger why, exactly, he wanted to stay, because Sherlock couldn’t actually figure out the real reason why.

He kept saying it was because of his school, his work and his friends, but there was something more there that he couldn’t quite work out. The thing was, he was actually quite looking forward to Italy: he hadn’t yet learnt Italian but he liked the language, he was a big fan of pasta and ice cream, the culture was interesting and the history was amazing. The criminals were smarter, the police force was smaller…it was everything Sherlock could want.

And yet, the thought of leaving was awful.

‘Take out your passport, dear,’ his mother said quietly from behind him. She looked guilty, and Sherlock’s heart hardened. She _should_ feel guilty-

‘Sherlock.’

‘I’m doing it,’ Sherlock snapped, glaring at his mother, who blinked. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Sherlock!’

Sherlock looked around, confused. ‘Can anyone else here someone saying my name?’

‘No.’ Siger also looked around, before looking at Sherlock anxiously. ‘Have you eaten today?’

‘SHERLOCK!’

‘I heard it that time,’ Violet conceded, but Sherlock wasn’t listening anymore, his eyes fixed on the small, blond figure sprinting towards him.

_John._

Siger’s eyebrows raised. ‘Is that- is that _John?’_

‘I think it is,’ Violet said, and Sherlock made a small choking sound in his throat. ‘What is he doing here, Sherlock?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘I don’t know.’

John stopped in front of them, deeply out of breath. His hair was mussed up, he’d clearly been wearing his clothes for more than twenty-four hours, and his eyes were red and swollen ( _hangover)_ , but he was staring at Sherlock with the deepest relief Sherlock had ever seen on another human being’s face.

They stared at each other, in the middle of security.

‘We’ll go through, Sherlock.’ Siger nodded at John, and led Violet, who was watching John with an amazed look in her eyes, away, glancing back once before facing forwards.

‘John.’ Sherlock spoke first. ‘What-‘

‘Shut up.’ John was still breathing hard, his eyes flickering around the airport, desperately avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. ‘Right. Ok. I rehearsed what I was going to say in the car.’

Sherlock frowned. ‘Why did you have to rehearse?’

‘Shut _up_.’ John took a deep breath. ‘I got your voicemail this morning, I was out with Sarah.’ Sherlock’s lips pursed and John nodded. ‘I know. I know you don’t like her. The thing is, Sherlock, the moment I got it I knew I needed to see you and I didn’t know why, but I was in the car and we were driving and I was just remembering every time me and you were in the car together, like that time we went to Devon, and then I realised that you would soon be gone for what, a year, and I didn’t want that but it wasn’t that I didn’t want that, it was like, I didn’t _want_ that, like it hurt to even think about it, do you understand?’

Sherlock had no idea what was going on. ‘John-‘

‘I’m not explaining myself clearly enough.’ John stamped his foot, his eyes finally resting on Sherlock. ‘Sherlock. I like you.’

‘So what, I like you too,’ Sherlock replied, bemused. ‘But I already knew that-‘

‘For fuck’s sake,’ John cursed, and then he pulled Sherlock down to his height and kissed him.

It wasn’t a long kiss, maybe five seconds. They didn’t open their mouths. Sherlock barely registered the feeling of John’s lips ( _soft, warm, gentle)_ before they were gone, and John was just staring at him, and Sherlock was just staring back, and then John made a choking sound in the back of his throat and ran, ran away from Sherlock.

Sherlock watched until he was out of sight, and then turned, numb. ‘I’ve worked out why I didn’t want to leave,’ he whispered to himself and he walked towards security as an avalanche of feeling overcame him.

 

 *

 

‘Alright, mate!’

Sherlock grinned at Mike Stamford, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Michael. It’s been a while. You look…’

The other boy smiled back. ‘I know. I got fat!’

Sherlock smiled despite himself. ‘Yes. You did. You’ve put on at least two stone, although the slightly increased height and darker hair also suit you.’ 

Mike laughed out loud, and several of the people around them looked at him in confusion. ‘Trust you to say it as it is, mate. You, though…you look good.’

Sherlock flicked his hair back and looked down at himself. He’d really shot up over the last year, reaching a respectable height of six foot (one inch shorter than Mycroft, to his chagrin). He’d also filled out slightly, so he looked less like a skeleton, and the Italian sun had (slightly) darkened his skin. ‘I know. I’m _gorgeous_.’

‘So how are you?’ Mike asked easily. Sherlock shrugged. ‘A bit overwhelmed. I don’t think any of us were expecting a welcome home party.’ They’d literally pulled into the house from the airport when the massive group of people had appeared, swarming over to the three of them. Siger said it was because he was so well-loved: Sherlock and his mother agreed it was due to Sherlock’s new-found fame.

As if reading his mind, Mike said, ‘I read about that case in the newspaper. It was _brilliant._ ’

Sherlock tried to look modest (it was hard, because Mike was right: it _was_ brilliant). ‘Yes. Well. All in a day’s work. I didn’t expect the reaction I received, honestly. It was just a dead woman-‘

‘And you ended up causing the arrests of half the Italian mafia.’ Mike whistled. ‘Quite the little celebrity, aren’t you?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, shut up.’ And then, as nonchalantly as he could, ‘How’s John?’

Mike looked at him quizzically. ‘He hasn’t been in touch?’

‘I haven’t heard from him in almost two years,’ Sherlock murmured, trying not to look as if he cared: he’d spent long enough trying to convince himself that he didn’t care, after all. ‘Is he…alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mike said. ‘He went through a bit of a slut stage just after you left. Then he very briefly dated Mary, but that ended pretty quickly…he wants to go to UCL, study medicine. His dad wants him to go into the army, but Jonny doesn’t seem that convinced.’ Mike narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you look angry?’

‘I’m not angry,’ Sherlock denied, though just the thought of John with Mary was like a knife in his heart ( _no, Sherlock_ ). Mike raised an eyebrow, but shrugged and said, ‘So…you know Molly Hooper?’

_Bam._

Suddenly, Sherlock’s whole world stopped. Mike Stamford’s words were lost; the slight breeze didn’t touch his skin; and everything, _everything_ in his vision disappeared except for one person, approximately six metres away with dark blond hair and sky blue eyes.

It was the person he’d thought about every day for the last two years. His first thought in the morning, his last thought at night, and most thoughts in between. He’d imagined this moment so many times, in so many different ways-

And now it was here, and every thought, every imagine, was forgotten. All that mattered was John Watson, wearing a tight pair of black jeans, a navy jumper and looking as scared as Sherlock felt.

Sherlock was moving forwards, desperate to be near him, to touch him, but John had turned around, walking away from the gathering of people on the front lawn. He didn’t even hesitate to follow him, excitement building up inside as he pressed _play_ on his life for the first time in two years. He was home, he was ready, and he was about to embark on his next, best, biggest adventure, if only John would stop and talk to him and let him near.

Sherlock rounded the corner, and John Watson pushed him against the wall before reaching up and kissing him.

Two years is a long time for two teenagers. Sherlock had kissed other people, of course he had, but it mostly felt like practice, practice for this, the real thing, with John, John _, John, John-_

Apparently not in his head. ‘You’re saying my name,’ John said, pulling back just enough to get the words out, but every moment when their lips weren’t touching felt like a knife to Sherlock’s heart and so he reached back forwards, drawing John back, touching him, hands in his hair, hands on his back and his arse and his shoulders and his arms, pressing himself so close to John that it almost felt like they’d become the same person, two halves of a whole, and he _knew_ that John was feeling the same because he was kissing him in the same way, passionate and brilliant and _hungry._ ‘John-‘ Sherlock said again, throwing his head back as John bit at his neck, ‘John-‘

He pulled away, and Sherlock breathed out, shaky and breathless but _so fucking happy._ ‘John-‘

‘That’s all I’ve heard you say,’ John said, with that same half-laugh, and Sherlock actually looked at him properly for the first time. ‘I can say other things, John,’ he replied, pushing his hands back through his hair, keeping his curls away from his forehead. ‘I could tell you about your failed relationship, your strained family relations due to your indecision to enter the armed forces, the fact that you’re failing your history A level, your urge to attend University College London and become a Doctor of medicine.’ He smiled slightly. ‘But I prefer saying your name.’

And John was laughing, leaning against the wall and thumping it with his left hand. ‘Christ, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.’

Sherlock spun around, imprisoning John in his arms, and bent down to kiss him once, chaste, gentle, a promise of things to come. ‘You’ll never have to miss me again, John.’

John looked up, and Sherlock’s brain froze. ‘I couldn’t contact you. I was too- embarrassed.’

Sherlock shrugged, because that couldn’t matter less to him now, not with John so close and so available and so brilliant, his and only his, right in front of him. ‘So what? I have you now.’

There was nothing to say after that, because it was true.

They had each other, and that was all they needed: two boys, kissing in the sun, reunited forever.


End file.
